


Forced Perspective

by The_Asset6



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Homophobic Language, M/M, S10 insert from Mickey's POV, Shameless-Typical Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 07:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26469781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: In Mickey’s experience, the best laid plans typically weren’t made when you were drunk off your ass and pissed at your boyfriend-slash-fiancé-slash-whatever. Drastic times called for drastic measures, though.In hindsight, the Vespa might have been a little much.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 12
Kudos: 111





	Forced Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This idea has been bouncing around my head for a while, so I hope you enjoy it!

Condensation dripped slowly down the side of the Old Style bottle Mickey had been nursing for half an hour while he picked idly at the label. The Gallagher house was quiet for a change, the lights dowsed beyond the kitchen and everyone who still lived there having gone to bed long before he’d snuck downstairs for a much-needed drink. Or he assumed they were asleep. They could’ve fucking moved out, for all he knew. He and Ian had been… _preoccupied_ , so it wasn’t like he’d have noticed either way.

Mickey smirked. God _damn_ , a pissed off Ian had _nothing_ on an Ian who’d believed Mickey was gone for good this time, broken leg notwithstanding. Not that he was really proud of what had brought them to that point, but hey, silver linings and all that shit Larry talked at him about during their lengthy, awkward, nauseating check-ins.

What a weird fucking day it had been.

No, what a weird fucking _week_ , one that Mickey was trying not to think too hard about even if his avoidance was an ass-backward joke in itself. Wasn’t that what had gotten him— _them—_ into such a fucking mess? Not thinking before they jumped the gun? The last few days had been some rom-com shit, which was ironic as fuck since it was Mickey who’d taunted Ian with that line in prison for suggesting they merely…talk. About what they were going to do after he got out. About where to go from there. About their _relationship_. In the heat of the moment, it had seemed so ridiculous. What the fuck did they need to talk for? Their arrangement had always been crystal clear: they did whatever and _who_ ever the hell they wanted while Mickey was inside, then they were back together when he wasn’t (unless he did something stupid like fuck off to Mexico). Simple. Easy. No words necessary—there never had been.

It hadn’t dawned on him until far too late that perhaps talking (or a lack thereof) was why the miniature universe he inhabited with Ian had a tendency of going to shit when they least expected it, typically accompanied by a mushroom cloud the size of Illinois if past experience was any indication. It also hadn’t occurred to him that, as much as it seemed like the sort of crap people only did in those stupid goddamn movies, it might also be the sort of crap _adults_ did out in the stupid goddamn real world. Could anybody blame him, though? Like Ian had so irritatingly observed at the courthouse, it wasn’t as if either of them had any great examples to follow. It was practically unexplored territory for them to have a shot at permanence as it was. His relationship with Ian had been a passing fancy on this side of their mutual adulthood. Before—when everything had been so good on the surface that they were deaf to the ticking time bomb inside Mickey’s house and Ian’s head—they were fucking _kids_. They didn’t know shit about shit, even though they sure as fuck thought they did then. And it had worked out.

Mostly.

…Okay, there had been a few rough patches and the occasional Titanic scenario. They’d always fallen back together eventually, though, which was what actually fucking mattered.

Mickey hadn’t seen a need to overhaul their slightly dysfunctional system when Ian was sitting in his bunk asking about kids, marriage, retirement—all the shit Mickey couldn’t quite buy that he, of all people, had the opportunity to achieve. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t have spent the last week or so pretending to be over the moon for some hipster twink he barely knew, not that he’d tried very hard. It was surprisingly difficult to act like he loved somebody when that somebody didn’t have red hair, a few inches on him, and _everything_ Mickey’s world revolved around.

Instead, Byron had a _Vespa_. Who the fuck could ever love a guy who rode around on a goddamn _Vespa_? Not Mickey Milkovich.

Sighing, he took a long pull from his beer and then scrubbed his hands over his face. Yeah. Weird fucking week. If Terry had seen that shit, there would have been no two ways about it: Mickey’s ass would be dead. He could ignore Ian because he wasn’t a walking billboard for the stereotypical pole-smoker; when the gay shit didn’t wave itself right in front of Terry’s fucking face like a rainbow flag, he could pretend he didn’t know that it existed. Byron? That was a reputation-destroyer, right there. That was an invitation to put a bullet in Mickey’s head.

_Like this isn’t?_

Mickey scoffed around another drink. Jesus, as soon as word got around that he was marrying Ian—and it _would_ , true to the South Side logic that dictated no secret remained so forever—Terry would probably beat the door down with a fucking AK-47 in hand. Depending on which of them he planned to murder first, it even had the potential to outshine the night he’d come out by a few hundred fucking lightyears. The neighborhood would be talking about it for months, perhaps even longer if nothing more fucked up happened in the meantime to distract them.

However, Mickey wasn’t so worried about any of that. The telltale pang of something that used to stomp him into the ground but had shrunk beneath his own boot years ago was still there—of course it was. It would undoubtedly always hang around to poke him in the face when it got a chance, begging for attention that he wouldn’t spare. He wasn’t a fucking kid anymore, and neither was Ian. They weren’t sneaking or hiding; they weren’t banging on the couch solely because they didn’t think they’d get caught for a change. No, it was a new goddamn era. He wasn’t scared of Terry Milkovich anymore. His old man was…well, an old man. Time and gentrification had emasculated him, putting a dent in both his reputation and the family business as a whole. Mickey could take whatever he planned to dish out, then Ian would mop up whatever the fuck was left. This wasn’t like before. This wasn’t like when Mickey had made the mistake of letting Terry dictate his life and lost Ian in the process. Fuck that shit. Fuck Terry’s opinion being the center of his existence. Besides a little professional advice where legal matters were concerned, he wasn’t even a blip on Mickey’s radar these days, not when he had far more important things to occupy his time with.

Like getting fucking married.

Like staying on the straight and narrow _because_ he was getting fucking married.

Like never coming up with another dumb reason to leave or get taken away from Ian again because he was _getting fucking married_.

Making _this_ marriage the one that was going to fucking mean something? That sort of took precedence over his queer-hating bitch of a father.

Now that it was _happening_.

Mickey could count the number of instances where he’d been relieved to see Lip Gallagher on one hand, and this definitely qualified. A distraction was just what he needed to forestall his inevitable dive down the fucking mental rabbit hole he’d burrowed into recently. They were getting married. He’d gotten what he wanted—what he hadn’t realized he wanted until Ian brought it up at the diner. Sure, they’d taken the goddamn scenic route to get there, but they’d arrived. His brain could shut the fuck up about how they almost hadn’t and why that had bugged the shit out of him.

And why he’d acted like such a fucking pussy about it.

“Hey,” Lip greeted him, as unsurprised to see Mickey when he entered from the backyard as Mickey was to see him. The Gallagher house was a revolving door like that.

Inclining his head in acknowledgement, Mickey drained the rest of his beer while Ian’s brother shut the door behind him and peered upstairs with a frown.

“Everyone asleep?”

“Fuck’s it look like?” replied Mickey with a shrug. “Thought you were supposed to be packing.”

That may not have been the most tactful comment given that Lip hadn’t been particularly excited about the whole Milwaukee bomb he’d dropped earlier, but what could he say? It was his own damn fault for going along with it purely because his baby-mama told him to. Mickey had already learned _that_ lesson a long time ago: there was just no making some bitches happy, especially after you knocked them up.

True to form, Lip shook it off quick enough. He crossed the kitchen to pull a can of root beer and a bottle of the real thing out of the fridge, setting the latter in front of Mickey as he took a seat beside him. “Too late. Freddie’s asleep.”

Mickey hummed and busied himself with popping the cap off with a nod of thanks. Unfortunately, the rules of fucking manners dictated that he ask, “How’s that dad shit going?”

“Still adjusting, I think. It’s got its ups and downs, but we’ll work it out.”

“Uh-huh. In, uh…in Milwaukee?”

Lip chuckled, though it was a hell of a lot more bitter than he probably meant for it to sound. “Guess so.”

_Poor fucking bastard._

They’d never been what Mickey would call _friends_ , but he wasn’t inhuman. Anybody with a shred of decency in them would have to feel _some_ pity for a guy who was about to get stuck in bumfuck over a damn girl, no matter how long a history they had of being an asshole. For Mickey’s part, he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy. Or maybe he would, but it was a short list, and the only living Gallagher on it was Frank.

Whether it was sympathy or the looming shadow of their impending in-law status at work, Mickey scratched at the end of his eyebrow and kept his gaze glued to the table when he ordered, “Just make sure you’re here for the wedding, or Ian’ll fucking kill you.”

“Wedding?” Lip echoed, and Mickey could already see a smirk gradually blooming across his face in his periphery. “Shit. Who’s the lucky guy?”

That was what he got for trying to cheer this dickhead up. At least it gave Mickey a legitimate excuse to flip him the fucking bird.

There was a beat of silence broken only by the scraping of glass and aluminum against the busted-up kitchen table. Mickey wasn’t sure what he’d expected—it wasn’t like they talked often enough about anything of value to know how the fuck Lip would respond to anything—but it wasn’t _this_ easy. Nothing ever was where his relationship with Ian was concerned.

Nothing ever _used_ _to be_.

“Guess you guys worked it all out?”

“No shit,” jeered Mickey. What kind of dumb fucking question was that?

Lip nodded, and it was almost unnerving how wide and genuine his damn smile was. Mickey would have thought that kind of thing would crack his fucking face in half, but it stayed intact for him to inquire, “When’s the big day?”

“Haven’t gotten that far.” Mickey paused to gulp down a few mouthfuls of beer before he continued, “Need at least a few weeks to get the venue and the guest list and all that shit put together.”

Lip appeared sort of blindsided by that one. “I thought you guys were doing the courthouse thing.”

Last time? When they were both convinced the other had committed a felony and needed to get it done before the cops came asking more questions? Fine. Whatever. Fast and dirty would do the trick. _This_ was a _real_ fucking wedding, and Mickey wasn’t about to let that pass without all the bells and whistles. He’d been waiting too damn long to wash the bitter aftertaste of that last one out of his mouth.

“Fuck no. We’re doing this the right way.”

“Does, uh…” Lip cleared his throat, but Mickey wasn’t a fucking idiot and caught on to the fact that he was trying not to laugh. “Does Ian know?”

“Not yet,” Mickey evaded with ease.

“Okay.”

“That a fucking problem?”

“No, I’m”—there it was, that goddamn smirk again—"sure he’ll be excited. For the planning and all.”

_Bullshit, he will._

They’d only just gotten past Ian’s terror at the prospect of marriage in the first place, courtesy of how messed up his brain was. Mickey wasn’t exactly holding his breath that the guy was going to jump right on the organizing wagon first thing in the morning. From the looks of it, neither was his smartass brother.

Narrowing his eyes, Mickey nevertheless set aside the elephant sitting at the other end of the table and muttered, “Fucking better be. You know how expensive it is to get _nice_ flowers?”

“Yeah, I remember Fiona mentioning it.”

“It’s a fucking _lot_.”

“Can always take out a loan.”

“Sure, I’ll bet every bank in Chicago is lining up to hand out loans to a couple of gay ex-cons.”

Lip grimaced but nodded in agreement with the fucking obvious. “Savings?”

“Working on your stand-up routine, huh, Gallagher?”

“We’ll figure something out. All else fails, you can just threaten to break a few kneecaps, right?” he suggested as he rose to his feet, and Mickey had to admit that it wasn’t an awful alternative. He wouldn’t _actually_ hurt anybody, of course: staying out of the joint was towards the top of his priorities now. Still, a few harmless reminders of his family’s illustrious history in the right circles could get him a little closer to his goal.

And he’d thought Lip Gallagher was worthless once upon a time.

What really stuck with him, however, wasn’t that Ian’s brother had mustered half a passable idea even if it _was_ a joke. That admittedly wasn’t anywhere near as big a surprise as Mickey wished it were, not when he was sitting there watching former college material deposit his empty can in the trash and make for the door. Getting stuck in the cesspit that the South Side amounted to didn’t mean he wasn’t as obnoxiously intelligent as he had been when they were kids, so that didn’t stand out much. What _did_ was that he hadn’t said _Mickey_ would figure something out. Hell, he hadn’t even made it about him and Ian.

 _We_. He’d said that _we_ would figure something out. Mickey was no fucking sap. It wasn’t like he _cared_ or some shit, but… Well, if he _did_ , it would have meant a lot to hear.

But he didn’t.

So what the fuck ever.

“Hey, Mickey?”

Half rotating in his chair to look over his shoulder, he frowned at Lip’s guileless smile and cautiously asked, “Yeah?”

“I just…wanted to thank you.”

…Was Hell freezing over?

“For what?”

“Taking care of him.” Lip nodded towards the staircase. “He doesn’t always make it easy.”

Mickey laughed softly, shook his head, and raised his beer to salute him out the door. “You can fucking say that again.”

He should have known that Ian’s brother couldn’t do him the favor of offering a distraction without drawing him right back to where he’d been when the guy showed up. Gallaghers. It was like they actively _tried_ to make his life difficult or something.

That wasn’t to say that that was how he _really_ felt about taking care of Ian. That had always been simple. Well, that was a lie: no, it _hadn’t_. There had been more than one instance where Mickey had believed that his inability to do what should have been the easiest thing in the world would break him in half. Regardless, he’d come to terms with a lot of that shit over the years. There wasn’t much to do in the pen besides think and work out, right? That was why he could admit to himself now that at least he’d gotten better at it. He didn’t ignore shit anymore or pretend that everything was all right when it wasn’t. He accepted that sometimes he wouldn’t be enough, but usually he was. Even when Ian had slipped to the verge of an episode once or twice on the inside, his meds kept it from getting too crazy, and a nudge in the right direction from Mickey got him back on track. It was fine. _They_ were fine.

But that stupid fucking disease of his _had_ done something else, something that _did_ make it pretty damn hard for Mickey to wait for him to pull his shit together. And that was what this whole week of separation had been about, even if he hadn’t realized it at the beginning.

Sighing heavily, Mickey finished off the rest of the bottle and dumped it into the overfull garbage can as he turned out the kitchen light on his way upstairs. The steps creaked beneath his feet like they had the first time he’d ascended them on his hunt for Ian the day after Mickey had hauled his ass home from Boystown. Fuck, it was hard to ruminate on all that no matter how many years passed. Those days were practically a lifetime ago: before prison, before coming out, before realizing why Ian seemed so different from how he used to be.

What hadn’t changed was the warmth that spread from Mickey’s gut to the rest of his body at the sight of him, not so lithe and not so young and not so batshit crazy yet just as beautiful as he was back then. It was harder to remember why he’d been so ticked off at this time last week when he was leaning against the doorframe, watching silently while Ian slept. The room wasn’t as big as the one they’d had at his house, nor was the mattress. They’d turned into a couple of pussies in their old age, so their clothes were hanging on the rack in the corner rather than strewn pell-mell wherever they were tossed at the end of the day. (Ian’s were, anyway. Mickey would need to pick his up from Byron’s place eventually, though he certainly wasn’t going to run out and get it done right this minute. He didn’t mind putting that shit off as long as he could.) Lip wasn’t across the hall, and Fiona wasn’t here at all, and Debbie had a miniature version of herself following her around wherever she went. Nothing was the same as it had been when they were kids. The scent of change was rife on the air, on the sheets, on Ian.

On Mickey, who hated change more than almost anything else because it had never gone in his favor before. Whenever he convinced himself that it was about to, that luck was going to shift directions and cut him some fucking slack, the rug was swept out from under his feet to remind him not to get his hopes up. Change sucked, especially on the South Side.

But everything changed. It _had_ to change. _They_ had to change if they were going to make this marriage shit work.

Maybe Mickey’s subconscious or whatever Ian’s clinic shrink called it realized that last week. Maybe he’d been unknowingly fighting against it with every fiber of his being for years now, pretending that he could keep their relationship exactly as it used to be while they were in prison and on their road trip to Mexico. He wasn’t including the whole marriage concept: once Ian had convinced him, there was no going back. But when that fell through and Ian had stood there outside the courthouse, begging him to just _talk_ about what they were going to do and what marriage was going to mean and what he wanted out of their future together… They were those two stupid kids again. They were the Mickey that needed some fucking space and the Ian that needed to be close. They were hot and cold, fire and ice, honey and vinegar—whichever fucking metaphor fit the bill.

They also _weren’t_ , but the fundamental difference between then and now hadn’t broken through his fury and discomfort. Instead, Mickey had been positive that history was repeating itself, that there would always be something standing in the way of him getting what he desired. It was enough to drive a guy insane, and he’d tried lighting a cigarette so that he wouldn’t punch Ian in the goddamn face like he had before. Some things didn’t change, and luck turning on a dime to fuck him in the ass yet again was one of those things. That, at least, was how he chose to explain the shitshow that had begun with him storming away from his ex-fiancé and culminated in the fucking embarrassment he’d put both of them through over the following week. It sure sounded a lot better than accepting that he’d done about as well as Ian had with embarking on a new level of their relationship. It definitely fucking sounded better than admitting that the problem could have been solved much quicker by doing what Ian had asked in the first place.

Immature or not, he hadn’t wanted to. Doing what _Ian_ asked had gotten him there to begin with, just as doing what _Ian_ asked had gotten him shot in the ass and tossed in juvie in the past. All he’d wanted was to be angry for a while. Not forever. Just a while. Mickey figured he’d earned that right, and Ian hadn’t disagreed with him.

The choices he’d made as a result, like so many others, weren’t ones that he was _proud_ of. Far from it. At the time, they’d simply sated his vindictive cravings. Sitting down for a goddamn _conversation_ with Ian would have had the same effect as listening to his even breathing from the doorway: _softening_ Mickey. Prompting him to _surrender_.

Fuck that. Mickey was more of a fighter, even if that occasionally meant fighting Ian.

 _Yeah, because that went real well_ , Mickey mused silently. He shook his head in exasperation at their combined series of terrible decisions while he stripped down to his boxers and one of Ian’s T-shirts. Jesus, was this what being an adult was all about? Reflecting on the stupid shit you did and actually having to work out what you could have done differently? Apologizing and all that crap? He didn’t like it. It sounded like a nicer word for _pussying out_.

That was why Mickey didn’t say it to Ian’s face.

He eased himself onto their bed. He pulled the covers up to his chest. He smiled a little when Ian instinctively rolled over to wrap an arm around him. He winced in pain, too, since Ian’s cast smacked into his calf in the process.

He whispered, “I’m sorry,” into his messy red hair.

But he wouldn’t say it again. Ian had done enough of that for both of them and hadn’t so much as paused to see if Mickey would reciprocate. Which he wouldn’t. He didn’t fucking need to. Ian knew where he stood, and that was what mattered. Besides, Mickey’s list of shit to apologize for wasn’t a long one. There was some stuff on it, sure, but he wasn’t about to take responsibility for this week’s whole nine yards of fucked up.

For example, Mickey wasn’t going to fucking apologize for not going to the hospital with Ian even if his stomach _did_ roil at him clumsily hobbling around on those dumbass crutches of his. The _not talking_ front would have been too difficult to maintain if he had to stay with Ian for any lengthy period or answer questions about his medical history, so he’d done the next best thing. No, not call an ambulance. With what fucking money was he supposed to pay for a goddamn ambulance? Their parole necessitated employment, but not the kind that dished out insurance like candy. A few thousand bucks to haul his ass to an emergency room wasn’t going to lighten the mood for either of them, not to mention that Mickey wouldn’t have left Ian with a bunch of strangers anyway, pissed off or otherwise. Not when he couldn’t even fucking stand up to defend himself if he needed to.

That was why he texted Lip and made _him_ come get his brother, citing a shift at work as his excuse for not doing it himself. The bastard clearly hadn’t bought it, but what was he supposed to say when Ian rubber-stamped Mickey’s story as though the gesture was going to fix their shit? Nothing, that’s what.

Just like he hadn’t been able to refute Ian’s muttered, “Wasn’t looking. Fell down the fucking steps,” when he asked how the hell he’d broken his leg in the first place. The disbelief was there, make no mistake. He hadn’t pursued it, though, and Mickey had waited around just long enough to watch them drive off in his baby-mama’s fucking Fiat before hopping the L alone.

So, yeah. Mickey wasn’t saying he was sorry for that because he _wasn’t_. The pain that laced Ian’s expression didn’t bring him any real pleasure, but it wasn’t sufficient to change his mind either. He’d needed to think. He’d needed to fucking breathe.

He’d needed a goddamn drink, although that was probably where his apologizing could start if he _did_ want to get specific.

Originally, the booze was all Mickey had been looking for. It wasn’t like he’d gone to some uppity bar with the _intent_ to move out. He’d simply been attempting to decompress without running into any fucking Gallaghers at the Alibi. The same went for hooking up with Byron: Mickey didn’t _plan_ that shit. If he did, he would have picked someone a hell of a lot less fucking… _Byron_ , that was for damn sure.

 _So much for that_ , Mickey mused with a twinge of bitter guilt. Pulling Ian closer, he did _not_ grimace when that freckly arm tightened around Mickey’s waist and Ian buried his nose in the hollow between his collarbones.

It was just… He’d been so fucking _angry_ , and it didn’t make any goddamn sense. What the fuck else _should_ Ian have concluded with that Paula shit? It wasn’t as though Mickey hadn’t talked about committing fucking homicide in front of him before. Hell, he’d damn near done it that time Frank caught them in the refrigerators at the Kash and Grab. If anything, _he_ was the fucking moron for entertaining the notion that _Ian_ could ever off anybody. That pussy might have been training to kill Jihad Jerry for his country in ROTC and could definitely put a guy on their ass in half a second, but cold-blooded _murder_? He’d have to be higher than a kite _and_ manic as fuck to pull that off. Mickey happened to know for a fact that he’d been neither when Paula took a flying fucking leap.

The trust thing, though. That shit. The shit he’d spewed at Patsy’s while he was proposing over scratched formica and age-fogged menus. Setting aside his argument about how much they loved each other, how did Ian go from saying he trusted Mickey to marrying him for spousal privilege? Mickey’s irritation had prevented him from giving Ian the benefit of the doubt, but he _had_ made that pretty damn clear from the outset. Ian hadn’t exactly attempted to hide it or anything. Regardless, in the aftermath of a shitty fucking day, Mickey’s mind had kept replaying the edited version in his head with every drink he downed. The alcohol riled him up until it didn’t fucking matter to him that he’d basically been on the same page after asking Terry and Ian had simply beaten him to the punch. It stoked the flames until he could write a goddamn book about how Ian should have fucking qualified that trust shit as believing Mickey must have had a good goddamn reason, not that he trusted he wouldn’t fuck up his parole and get their asses separated again.

Of course, they could have hammered that crap out if Mickey had… _talked_.

But no. He drank. He drank a fucking _lot_. He thought about that afternoon, visualized Ian lying on the ground clutching his broken leg, and fucking drank some more.

By the time Byron approached him, Mickey figured anybody would have looked attractive enough to vent his frustrations with. _On_. Whatever. And whether he had thrown just as many sheets to the wind or was somehow reeled in by an irrational Lake Shore Drive fetish for dangerous South Side thugs, Byron hadn’t run for the hills like anybody with common fucking sense would have.

Poor decisions were made. That was no surprise. In hindsight, Mickey should’ve bashed his head against that granite hipster bar top and knocked himself the fuck out. Unconsciousness would have been preferable to what he’d actually done.

Drunk Mickey, on the other hand, spitefully stuck it to Ian. His so-called boyfriend didn’t trust him? Well, maybe Mickey would have been better off giving him a good fucking reason not to. His _former_ fiancé wanted to know how Mickey _felt_? Well, Mickey would fucking show him—by _giving_ him a show. And his ass could watch from the outside.

…Yeah. Drunk Mickey was kind of a douchebag.

Hungover Mickey clawed his way to consciousness next to a stranger two days later and channeled drunk Mickey to ask if he could crash at Byron’s place for a while since he’d just gotten out of a relationship.

Hungover Mickey felt like utter shit. Not for how hard his head was pounding, but for how badly his heart was aching at not knowing if Ian was still in the hospital and sticking his dick in some other guy more than once over the last forty-eight hours.

Hungover Mickey wanted to go home. Hungover Mickey wanted Ian.

Mickey wouldn’t let him.

Because he _wanted_ to see Ian’s skepticism turn to dread when he showed up long enough to pack his shit and throw a few parting shots. He _craved_ the release of erasing the Ian that had begged him to admit that Mickey loved him from his brain for a few fucking seconds and pretending that he was free of the Gallaghers forever. A fucking fairy might have said that he _yearned_ for Ian to come after him or some shit.

All three of his wishes came true, and none of the results brought him an ounce of the relief he’d been hoping for. The abject despair in Ian’s eyes didn’t make him feel better, nor did it accomplish anything but walking away with the sounds of sixteen-year-old Ian’s pleas in his ears. While Ian _did_ find him at Byron’s, it was with rings that didn’t mean what Mickey had thought they might. Promise rings? Seriously? Jesus fucking Christ, even now he couldn’t picture a damn thing girlier than that—not even talking about their fucking feelings.

Shit had poured out of his mouth about Ian not loving him enough, words that Mickey wished he could take back. They weren’t true. He’d _never_ believed any of it, but out they came like somebody else was doing the speaking for him. Whoever that was preferred to ignore how they’d been ghetto-married once already and prison-married more recently. They wanted to get to the meat and potatoes of the fucking argument as quickly as possible and threw all the spaghetti at the wall to see what stuck, heedless of the stains it left on both their souls.

Then Ian asked how _Mickey_ knew that _he_ loved _Ian_.

Then Mickey realized what all this shit was about.

Maybe sober Mickey was kind of a douchebag too.

Biting the corner of his lip, he angled his head to the side so that he could see Ian’s face where it rested against his chest. Only two days had passed since that particular shitshow, so Mickey didn’t doubt for a second that the same fears that had darted through his stupid orange head that night were still knocking around in there right now. They’d spent fucking _years_ nesting, putting down roots, and digging their heels in. A couple days wouldn’t begin to exterminate that shit.

“Fucking dick,” whispered Mickey, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

After all these years, Ian hadn’t gotten rid of his dumbass hero complex. The war was different, but the tactics were the same. That the moron sleeping in Mickey’s arms could _ever_ believe he needed protecting from Ian was so goddamn insane that it made perfect sense for it to stem from his bipolar shit. That he was willing to be a fucking martyr and deny himself what he loved _more than anything_ turned Mickey’s stomach. Hesitating at the shitty excuse for an altar the courthouse provided? No, it wasn’t about not loving Mickey enough. It was about loving him _too_ much and being so damn afraid that he wasn’t worthy of Mickey sticking around for the long haul. As always.

Taunting him about it had felt like shit. That didn’t stop him from doing it again the next day when Ian arrived with yet another olive branch, this time in the form of one of his forgotten shirts. It _did_ mean that what little effort he was putting into the façade with Byron fell even flatter than it already had been. By that point, there wasn’t much sense in driving the knife deeper. Mickey had already broken into a million fucking pieces at seeing Ian near tears again, desperately hiding behind the mask that had protected him from the guy’s emotions for years. They were at war, after all.

This battle? It was one that Ian had to fight on his own.

At least the collateral damage was entertaining, anyway.

Mickey wouldn’t apologize for giving that queer Ian had brought to the club a minor beating. He wouldn’t apologize for hurting Ian in order to push him to a point where he went with his gut rather than his brain. He wouldn’t apologize for avoiding the conversation they probably should have had a while ago until after the best sex they’d had in months.

“It’s not that I didn’t love you enough,” Ian had whispered into the darkness. His eyes were closed, and Mickey hadn’t considered it a bad thing.

“I know.”

They could have left it at that. Mickey would _rather_ have left it at that, but since when did he get what he wanted? …Marrying Ian aside.

“Your bipolar crap’s not too much for me.”

“Yeah, well, what happens if I lose my shit and get locked up again?”

Mickey had actually laughed at that, answering Ian’s frown with, “You got locked up because you went off your meds.”

“So, what? You gonna count my pills every day for the rest of your life to make sure I take them?”

“Fuck off. You’ve got your shit together.”

“Yeah, until I’m not me again.”

“Jesus Christ, Ian,” Mickey had groaned. “We’ll deal with it when we’ve gotta deal with it, for fuck’s sake.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“ _No_ , but I _want_ to.” Ian’s mouth had opened, but Mickey continued, “Don’t fucking tell me what I can want.”

They lapsed into silence after that, and Mickey had almost fooled himself into believing that the conversation was over when Ian rolled onto his side to watch him with a sort of vulnerability that reminded him of when they were those stupid fucking kids again.

“I love you. And…I _do_ trust you.”

Rolling his eyes, Mickey had grabbed his hand to drag him closer and murmured, “Good. Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

The hush of their synchronous breaths was unbroken for all of a minute when a bit of the torturous reality he’d constructed over the last week reared its head again. Because why the fuck not?

“I _do_ need to get my shit from Barry’s eventually,” he’d huffed, grinning when Ian indulgently shook his head.

“ _Byron’s_.”

“Whatever the fuck his name is.”

“We can go tomorrow.”

Mickey had shrugged at that. “No rush, man. Gonna have to burn it all anyway.”

“I can take care of it for you,” Ian began innocently. Good thing Mickey knew better than to trust _that_ shit.

“Please, you’ll violate your parole and fucking kill the guy.”

“…Probably.”

Maybe visions of homicide weren’t the best dream material, but Ian had drifted off not long after that, and Mickey had futilely slipped downstairs for something that might wipe the memories away until morning. Because he was a fucking idiot. Who cared if they were going to spend the rest of their lives together? He wasn’t about to miss another second with Ian. There were already so many that they’d never get back because of one fucking thing or another.

But not anymore. Never again.

For once, luck really _was_ on his side. It just needed to last until they said their goddamn vows without the sky falling or aliens deciding to invade right as they were getting to the _I do_ part. 

_Might as well start now, to be safe._

Sweeping a few errant strands of hair out of Ian’s face, Mickey craned his neck to whisper in his ear, “I love you. You and your busted-ass brain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! For more on my writing, Shameless, and assorted fandom madness, I'm on [Tumblr](https://pathoftheranger.tumblr.com/)!


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